


Snow Angel

by NadiaHart



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Absent John Winchester, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angelic Grace Bonds (Supernatural), Angels, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bad Parent John Winchester, Canon-Typical Violence, DeanCas Mixtape 2018, F/M, Family Feels, Fix-It, Growing Up, Guardian Angels, Happy Ending, Happy Winchesters (Supernatural), Holiday Mixtape 2018, Holidays, M/M, One Big Happy Family, Protective Dean Winchester, Snow, Snow Angels, Soul Bond, Time Skips, really canon divergent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 00:39:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17234162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NadiaHart/pseuds/NadiaHart
Summary: Dean knew his mom was dead wrong when she told him angels were watching over him. If they were would his life have turned out like this? Now, his moms just dead, his dads gone insane, the monster under his bed is real, and there are things much worse than that in the world.When a disembodied voice comes to him, Dean's already accepted his fate; when you live the life of a hunter you never live long. He was, however, hoping to live past thirteen. When this voice tells him he's got a destiny to fulfill, it all comes as a bit of a shock.It also might be the exact moment his fate changes, destiny be damned.





	1. Thirteen

**Author's Note:**

> This is my contribution to the DeanCas Holiday Mixtape 2018. Working with [@deli](https://delicious-irony.tumblr.com/) is always such a pleasure. Give them a follow and be sure to check out not only their amazing art but all their fics too.
> 
> This story would not have been possible without the support of my friends and family on the [ProfoundBond Discord](https://discord.gg/GGbw2NP)
> 
> Special thank you to [@captainhaterade,](https://captainhaterade.tumblr.com/) [Ryn,](http://canadduh.tumblr.com/) Rocksalt&Honey and Shore <3

 

“Boy! Get back here!”

John’s voice cracks through the air, deep and snarling, chasing after Dean as he bolts from the back of the small cabin and into the dense wood. It’s a desolate thing, the cabin, barely holding together against the wind and drifting snow. It long ago fell to disrepair, forgotten out in the middle of the forest. Just some random place that John stumbled across and decided it was as good as anything to set up in for the night.

Not that this night should be special. No night with John is special, why should Christmas Eve be any different? After being on the road for three days straight, cooped up in the Impala with Sam and Dad driving further and further north; the air growing steadily colder until the thin mist turned into a blanketing, heavy snowfall. It’s too much and Dean is at his breaking point.

Dean really thought he’d be able to make it another year if he could have just one night as a normal family. But nothing is ever normal when your Dad disappears after some monster. Some creature. The whisper of a rumor of yellow eyes and fire and leaves left Dean alone, too young to fight, too small to disagree, too concerned about Sammy to ever really leave.

Dean thought if he could just have _one_ night with them all together it would be okay. That everything he’s been through over the last few weeks, months, _years…_. It would be worth it.

All the days he went hungry so Sam could eat. All the nights sitting up fighting sleep, clutching his sawed-off, staring at the door waiting for Dad or death to come for him. Dean stupidly thought that they could just have one night like a normal family. Just a normal kid, with a normal Dad and a little brother, celebrating the holidays in a cozy cabin in the woods. Just _once._

Dean’s life will _never_ be normal.

The air burns his lungs as he runs, each breath stabbing cold. His feet went numb long ago, yet he pushes on while the forest grows thicker and thicker around him. The trees press in on him, large and imposing, rising up like walls on either side of his shoulders. Their bare branches creak and clack, an echo of the wind that moans mournfully through them. They reach for him with claws, fingers stretching, swaying, dark and shadowed against the brightness of the unforgiving moon.

Fear drips like syrup down his spine and Dean stumbles to a stop, glancing around the deserted woods. His teeth clack as shivers wrack his frame. Sweat cools rapidly against his overheated skin and his breath rises in a thick cloud from his lips. The only sign of life Dean can find is the deep imprint of his feet trailing off behind him in the drifting snow. He’s the only thing alive to have been through here in days. So why does it feel like he’s being watched? That at any moment the trees are going to bend down and rip him to shreds?

He’s running again before he even realizes he’s moved. His heart hammers in his chest, lungs burning, and his legs are like cement dragging him down. The darkness chases him, blotting out the moon and crowding around his ears, suffocating him. Dean screams, the sound high-pitched and childish. A child is exactly what he is, exactly what his Dad cursed him for before he fled.

The darkness swells behind him, Dean can feel it like an itch on the back of his neck. Its jagged tendrils strain to grab him, to capture him, and blind his eyes forever. With the last of his strength Dean bolts, bursting into a clearing. Staggering and stumbling, he turns, tripping over his numb legs and falling onto his butt in the snow. As he stares with wide eyes at the woods he just escaped from, the darkness swirls, swelling like a cresting wave at the edge of the tree ring. Dean blinks, forcing his eyes closed tightly and then rips them open again, finding nothing but his trail of frantic footsteps and a moon-soaked forest.

“I must be tired,” Dean sighs, flopping back into the snow and staring up at the crystal-clear sky. This far out into the mountains, it seems like he can see clear across the universe. As the stars twinkle and dance, somewhere deep in his chest an ache awakens that has nothing to do with his sprint across the forest.

“Mom…” Dean whispers, stretching one tired arm up towards the heavens. “Mom, please…” he sobs, tears so hot they sting his frozen cheeks as they slide from his eyes. Anger flares through him, burning heat into his limbs. Dean drops his arm, scrubbing his palms roughly over his cheeks and screams into the night sky.

“How could you?” Dean wails, blinking past his fists and up at the swirling nexus of stars. _“HOW COULD YOU?!?”_ His voice echoes in the clearing, cracking and breaking as he screams. The pain of his loss—so much loss—rages, alive and angry through his chest.

He screams until his throat aches and his eyes sting from salt. Too exhausted to stay upright, Dean flops back into the snow, his arms flailing out wide and pants heavy, foggy breaths. The stars blur in front of his unblinking eyes.

“How could you leave us, l _eave me_ , all alone.” Dean sniffs, his nose stuffed and his head groggy. “Everything is so different now. Dad… he… he’s...” Dean chokes, and his eyes sting as fresh tears spring free.

“Where are your angels now, Mom?” Dean snaps, throwing his arms away from himself and dropping them hard into the snow. He flails in his distress, swiping them up and down. “No one is looking out for me!” He shouts, pushing the snow wide, pressing the wings of his missing angel more clearly into the powder with each swipe of his arms. “No one is watching over me!”

Dean drops his head back into the snow, defeated, alone. “No one…” he sobs again.

Everything aches.

It’s so cold, but Dean’s not even shivering anymore.

He can’t feel his arms, never mind his fingers and toes. His jeans are soaked through, clinging wetly to his legs and cocooning him in the cold frost of the night. His eyes feel heavy, and sleep tugs at him in a way that he knows, somewhere deep in his memory, is dangerous.

“Do not cry, Dean Winchester.”

Dean gasps, sucking frosted air into his lungs like it’s the first time in his life he’s tasted it. Choking, he coughs until his chest burns and a headache blooms behind his eyes. He tries to jump to his feet while reaching for the knife in his boot but his body protests and he cries out in pain as his limbs lock up. Agony sears across his stiff muscles and Dean can do nothing but breathe one labored, aching breath after another.

“Who are you?” he grits out, finally able to pull his torso out of the snow and flop over his bent knees. “Who’s there?”

His numb fingers slip and slide over the stiff hem of his jeans and Dean curses under his breath, struggling to get at his only weapon.

“I suppose a disembodied voice is not the best way to ease your suffering,” the voice says thoughtfully.

“Yeah, you think?” Dean snaps, glancing around. Though he’s not sure he really wants to meet the owner of this deep, rumbling voice, he thinks he can work with this. The longer he keeps this thing talking, the more time he has to get his knife out. “Why don’t you show your face so me and you can have a little chat?” _Yeah, right before I gank you and get my frosty ass back to the cabin._ Dean adds in his head.

“Hmm,” the voice rumbles like distant waves and Dean rests his forehead against his knees. His pants are frozen solid and his stiff fingers are doing nothing to break through. “I am concerned that my physical manifestation might be more frightening. I am not sure it would help ease the situation. Historically speaking, humans do not often take to seeing my kind very well…”

“Yeah, well, let me tell you one thing buddy, I doubt you’ve met a human like me before.” Dean clicks his tongue, frowning at his pants, and then looks around the clearing for any sign of the creature. “I’ve seen more shit this past week than most people see in twelve lifetimes. I promise you, you ain't gonna scare me.”

“If you’re sure...”

Dean rolls his eyes and gives up on the knife. If he’s going to bite it, it might as well be to an invisible monster that wants him to be _sure_. Resting his stiff arms across the tops of his bent knees, Dean sighs.

“Yeah, man, hit me with it.”

The air in front of him shimmers and sparks, wavering like heat rising off some deserted stretch of back road in a Kansas heatwave. Dean stares in awe, unable to look away as the entire clearing grows brighter, luminous in amber and copper like the first rays of dawn after a long nightmare. For the briefest moment it’s beautiful, but then it changes, the light distorts, twisting viciously. The wind howls and an awful sucking noise fills the glade.

Pressure pushes on his eardrums and the headache thrums incessantly in the base of his skull. The pressure makes it hard to breathe; like he’s a tube of toothpaste being squeezed without taking the cap off. He wants to scream, to lift his hands and cup them over his ears, but before he can do anything more than fitfully gasp for air there’s a crack like thunder and then everything freezes.

Even the erratic beating of his heart stops in his chest. For a horrible moment, Dean can’t move, can’t think, can’t breathe. Light and wind, snow and ice, the vortex before his eyes swirls so fast it appears frozen until it explodes in a thousand shards of light. Dean barely manages to lift his stiff arms in time to shield his eyes. When all seems calm and the air feels cold and dead again, he lowers them to gape at what is left behind.

Standing before him is a monster, unlike anything he’s ever seen before. His eyes can't fully focus on it. It’s too bright to look directly at, a star fallen from the sky, hovering above the snow-covered ground waiting for Dean to say something. He's got nothing, his voice choked off in his throat, and he can’t look away.

Where its head should be, a multitude of faces blend and merge together, overlapping and fading into one another. Dean’s dizzy trying to pick out individual features from the swirling mass. A lion roars silently before melting into the cawing head of a raven. The raven merges into a jackal, which distorts into a human-like face, though its eyes are too large and its mouth is no more than a gaping slash along the bottom of its head.

Six massive rings orbit the figure, each rotation making a low humming sound as it moves through the air. The rings are covered in blinking, glowing eyes and Dean feels terror melt into his very soul. It’s more beautiful and devastating than anything he’s encountered in his thirteen years.

It’s at this moment he feels his mortality more clearly than he ever has; his impending death hangs over his head like a shroud. Dean has no idea what he’s looking at or how to kill it. If it’s even possible to kill it. His brain moves sluggishly through any and all lore he can remember, but he’s suddenly so cold and light-headed. He can’t look away, can’t even blink as massive black wings—two, four, he doesn’t know how many—flutter and pump to keep the creature afloat. His eyes water, tears streaming down his cheeks.

“Ah, yes. This is what I was afraid of.” The words resound inside his head, just barely audible over the painful ringing that erupts the moment the creature opens one of its many mouths.

Dean is sure his ears are bleeding. And that is the last thought he remembers before everything goes black.

He wakes up slowly, sluggish and warm like he’s been dunked into a hot tub and then rubbed down with warm oil. His body feels relaxed, every muscle reluctant to move, reluctant to return to the world of the waking.

 _My death was much better than I imagined it would be,_ Dean thinks, sighing as he sinks further down into the cloud-like cushions supporting him.

“It is a good thing you are not dead.”

Dean snaps up, surging from the comfortable cocoon and crashing—both physically and emotionally—back into his body as it tumbles off the moth-eaten couch and onto the broken, worn cabin floor. He’s on his feet in an instant, the knife he struggled to pull from his boot earlier now gripped in his fist and held before him.

There’s a boy, not much older than himself, standing over Sam as he sleeps on a cot by the fire. He reaches out and his fingers brush a few strands of hair away from Sam’s face.

“Get away from him,” Dean whispers roughly, circling around the decrepit coffee table to bring himself closer to the stranger.

“Hello, Dean,” the boy says, and his voice is deeper than Dean expected, almost unnaturally so. Dean’s skin crawls as the boy slowly turns his gaze away from Sam and pins Dean with it. Piercing blue eyes, an angular jaw, and full, chapped lips fit into what would otherwise be a plain face. Something about this kid sends Dean over the edge. He’s unnatural, otherworldly, a monster, and there should be no way he broke past Dad’s protective charms and defenses.

He’s a danger to Sam and that’s enough. Dean surges forward, the knife in his hand sinking easily into the boy's chest. There's no crunch, no resistance of bone or tissue. Dean slips the knife between his ribs with deadly precision, his other hand coming up to cup the kid’s mouth and stifle his last breath and any noise he might make that would wake Dean’s family. He brought this danger in, he’ll take it out. No one will be the wiser.

He expects a lot of things; he expects screaming, blood, pain. Dean expects to watch the light in this boy's bright blue eyes shrivel and die. He expects to take the brunt of his weight as his heart bleeds out in his chest. Of all the things he expects, it’s not for this strange boy—this creature—to lick his palm.

Dean snatches his hand back to wipe it down his thigh. His knife is still sticking out of the kid's chest and there’s no blood, no wailing. The cabin is unnaturally silent as the boy looks from Dean to the knife and frowns.

“For some reason, I am not at all surprised,” he says in that too-low voice before reaching up and slowly pulling Dean’s blade from his chest. He drops it unceremoniously to the floor. The wound glows a bright, brilliant white for a moment and then even the kid’s graphic tee is back to perfect condition.

“Who… what…?”

“Yes, I suppose you have questions.” The creature looks down at its body, runs its hands over the faded band logo on the shirt and then clears its throat. “Forgive me, it’s been quite a while since I’ve taken a vessel, let alone one from this bloodline. It feels… _strange,_ to be back in a human form…”

“Wh… what? Hu––human?” Dean stammers. He’s having trouble processing what this thing is saying. Is it _wearing_ someone right now? Dean doesn’t know of any monsters that can do that.

“Hmm… Yes, you wouldn’t know, would you? But you were so insistent when you called out to me. In so much pain, so close to death and not even remotely your time yet.” The thing clicks its tongue and fixes Dean in its gaze.

“Are… are you wearing someone right now, like are you inside their s–skin?” Dean grimaces as he looks the creature over.

“Mmm, yes, in a sense. James Novak to be exact, many a great-grandchild of Jessa Novak, though he prefers to go by Jimmy. I don’t have long, for though Jimmy has readily agreed to house me he is not yet old enough or strong enough to contain me for extended periods.”

Dean gapes open-mouthed, looking from the blade on the floor to the thing standing in front of him. So far, it hasn’t shown any sign of hostility, even taking Dean’s attack with such passivity it seemed practically bored.

“What are you?”

“Oh, yes. I am an Angel of the Lord, a Warrior class of the Seraphim choir, to be exact. To some, I am the Shield of God. The bearer and protector of The Sword of Michael, and to others yet, the Angel of Thursday. Though, I think that is possibly a mistranslation. To you though, Dean Winchester, I am Castiel, your _guardian_ angel.”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Dean snorts, running his hands through his hair. “You really expect me to believe that not only do I have a guardian angel, but you’re here, _now_ , in the body of a—what?—fifteen-year-old kid?”

“Jimmy is sixteen, and yes. Though I was not supposed to, I had to intervene. You, along with the events that lead to your birth, are a cosmic event. Carefully orchestrated. It is my duty to ensure that you do not perish before your destiny can come to pass.”

“My what? Destiny? Did you fucking say _destiny?_ My birth was a cosmic fucking event?” Dean gestures around at the broken down-cabin, with its busted windows and slanted walls, the small, limp fire flickering in the fireplace. “Look around you, you freak. You’ve got the wrong kid. I’ll be lucky if I get to see twenty-three, let alone this destiny you're going on about.”

Castiel seems to bristle, shadows shifting darkly behind Jimmy’s shoulders as a frown far too serious for his young face draws his lips down.

“You have no idea….” Castiel stops short, his hands flex at his side and he releases a slow breath. He glances over his shoulder as if someone just called his name, head tilting slightly like he’s listening to something far away. Dean glances over Castiel’s shoulder, too, but doesn’t see anything.

“I do not have time for this right now,” Castiel says, advancing and grabbing Dean by his upper arm. “I must return you to where I found you. When you wake, follow your footsteps back to this cabin and remain here until your father returns in three days.”

“What… hey? What do you mean? Dad’s not here right now? Hey, let go of me...” Dean tries to pull his arm from Castiel’s iron grip but only ends up hurting himself as the angel pulls him towards the door. “Where are we going? No. Stop. Sammy!”

His voice cuts off in his mouth, pressure expands around him, stuffing up his nose and throat with darkness. His insides become his outsides and then go back to being his insides again, Dean’s sure of it.

There’s a lot of light. Swirling, moving light, flickering brilliantly even through his tightly shut eyelids. Light pours out of him, warm and golden. Blue-white light surrounds him, cradles him, and for a brief moment, Dean feels something deep in the pit of his stomach settle.

He’s overwhelmed with how safe and familiar it all is, like the press of his mom’s lips to his forehead before bed. A quick passing flare of warmth and then it's gone. Dean’s not one for motion sickness but this time he really, _really_ wants to get off the ride.

Coughing and gasping, Dean lurches upright, his head’s spinning and his chest hurts like something’s been ripped out of it and replaced incorrectly. Blinking around the clearing, he can’t remember how he got here or what he’s doing out in the middle of the woods. Sluggishly, he gets to his feet and staggers a few steps, brushing snow off his surprisingly dry backside. It takes a few minutes of stumbling before his eyes land on his own trail of footprints leading into the clearing.

The wind hits him hard in the back, forcing him forward a few steps towards his path and he shivers. Curling his arms around his chest, Dean gives in to the creeping feeling crawling up his spine and retraces his footsteps out of the clearing and back towards the cabin. It’s not like there’s going to be anything there for him when he gets back except for Sammy, but he needs Dean. It was stupid to run off into the woods at night, anyway. Who knows what he could have met out here.

Just before he leaves the clearing and steps through the tree line, Dean glances back. The moon is high, casting a cool, blue glow over everything, and the sky is just as clear as he remembers. Nothing is moving, not even the breeze through the branches above. Dean easily finds the impression of his body in the snow, out to the sides of his torso are the wings he pressed into the powder with his arms. It’s been years since he made a snow angel and he can’t remember what caused him to make one now. He can’t remember much past rushing out of the cabin and then waking up in the clearing.

Unable to shake the feeling that something isn’t right, Dean runs a hand over his face and turns toward the forest to begin the trek back. Behind him, the wind blows loose snow through the clearing. Dean hunches his shoulders against it and trudges on.

He doesn’t look back until the cabin door has closed behind him and he’s collapsed next to Sam on the cot by the fire. He never sees the impression of the six massive wings that overlays his own stilted impersonation in the glade. He misses the sharp detail of each feather sprouting from the impression of his shoulders and how, all at once the snow compacts at once, leaving behind the imprint of feathers, spread for flight. The wings fill the clearing from one edge to the other.


	2. Twenty-six

“Sam! Goddamnit, Sammy!” Dean ducks down beside the Impala. His chest is heaving and his fingers are numb, but his face still splits into a grin. He pops up to look over the hood and gets blasted in the face with yet another snowball. Dropping back down Dean laughs, spitting out snow and reaching around to scoop up as much as he can. Compacting the fluff between his palms, he stands to ready his assault.

“You suck at this!” Sam shouts launching another ball at him, Dean dodges hopping to his left and lifting his arms above his head to toss the boulder of snow he’s made at his brother.

“HA! Who suuuu–” Dean loses his footing and goes tumbling backwards, the snowball he’d created arching high above his head. “No, no, no, nooo….” He gets his hands up just in time to have it smash against his palms and shower snow down around him.

“See, you suck.” Sam grins, his cheeks flushed and flops down next to Dean.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” John’s voice cracks like a bullwhip and Dean flails as he’s yanked to his feet. “How fucking old are you, huh, Dean? Where do you get off acting like a jackass?” John shoves at Dean, making him stumble a step until he regains his footing.

“Twenty-six, Sir. Sorry, Sir.” Dean clears his throat, standing rigidly as Sam slowly gets to his feet.

“Hey, why don’t you….”

“You got something to say, boy?”

“Sam, don’t.”

Dean’s body coils, standing on the edge of indecision, to step in front of his brother or his father. Thankfully, Sam rolls his eyes and turns away. John grabs Dean around the back of his neck, pulling their faces into alignment, his eyes narrowed. “That’s how you get dead,” he hisses before shoving Dean away.

“There’s a nest in the next town that needs to be dealt with,” John sniffs, rolling his shoulder and looking at Dean out of the corner of his eye. “You should be able to handle it on your own.” The _‘don’t bring Sam’_ goes unsaid, and Dean nods. The door to John’s truck, despite its advanced age, doesn’t squeal when he pulls it open and heaves himself into the driver's seat. “Don’t fuck it up.”

With that parting advice, John kicks the truck into drive and leaves Dean standing on the side of the highway. Clearing his throat, Dean turns, finally brushing the snow off his front and back.

“What did _he_ say?” Sam asks, eyes narrowed after John’s fading tail lights.

 _“Dad_ said that there is a motel in the town up ahead and he wants us to shack up there until the storm passes. _And_ that you’re supposed to complete that online course before we head to Bobby’s for the holidays.”

“Yeah, I doubt it….” Sam puffs out his cheeks and stuffs his hands in his pockets.

Dean gives his shoulder a shove saying: “Get in the car, you giant nerd,” as he pulls open the driver-side door. It squeals loudly and he’s thankful John’s already gone. He’ll pick up some WD-40 when they hit the next town.

 

It’s hours later, and the flames licking up the side of the old barn are no competition for the moon’s blue-white glow. Dean can’t look away. Something about it, about this moment, is familiar. He really can’t put his finger on it, though. Maybe it’s the blood loss? Maybe it’s the snow.

Dean glances down, lifting his palm from his side and grimacing as pain flares up his ribs and into his chest. His palm is covered in blood and the snow under him is slushy and uncomfortable.

“So much for not fucking it up,” Dean groans, trying to roll onto his front so he can at least crawl another hundred feet. Then maybe another hundred after that, then maybe into the Impala. At least he can die inside Baby…

“Fuck…” Dean coughs, the blood welling into his mouth is metallic and bitter. He flops onto his back again, not having made it all the way around. Blinking through the pain, he looks up at the moon and in a fit of hysteria, he spreads his arms out wide.

“Sorry, Sammy,” Dean breathes, dragging his extended arms up and down through the snow at his sides, leaving trails of crimson in the white as his fingers drag through it. “Sorry I won't be there when you wake up tomorrow. Sorry I won't be around to give an embarrassing speech at your wedding…” He hacks up blood and spit, groaning as his wound sends pain searing through his side. “I’ll watch over you,” he promises, losing feeling in his arms, “I’ll grow wings and I’ll….I’ll—”

“Not this again.”

The voice stops Dean short in his goodbye speech. It’s tired and if Dean wasn’t so out of it, he’d think it was exasperated. But who stumbles onto a person bleeding out in the middle of the woods and says, ‘ _Not this again?’_

The instinct to reach for his knife flares through him but sputters out in the twitching of his cold fingers in the snow. He can’t even lift his head up to look at who’s found him. Thankfully he doesn’t have to as the person leans over him, blue eyes blinking tiredly.

“I… I know you?” Dean manages, squinting up at the man frowning down at him.

“No, you shouldn’t.” He responds his voice a deep, commanding rumble. Something about it makes Dean shiver.

“I do. Why do I know you?” He presses, attempting to sit up.

“You do not know me, Dean Winchester,” the man insists and Dean takes a breath to argue but coughs instead, blood filling his mouth and making his next breath gurgle in his lungs.

A warm hand cradles the back of his neck, angling his face up. The man frowns down at Dean and for a moment he has the craziest thought.

“You’re beautiful.” Dean hears himself say, but that’s not right. First of all, this dude is a dude, no matter how thick and dark his eyelashes are, and Dean doesn't find dudes beautiful.

The man seems taken aback. His eyes widen slightly and the corner of his lips turn down, as if Dean’s compliment was both pleasing and deeply disappointing. Dean understands the sentiment.

“Thank you,” the man says. Dean tries to nod but his head is being held up for him and he thinks it might be rude to dislodge the man's grip.

“What’s your name?” Dean asks, not even sure why he cares. He supposes that being on the verge of death does funny things to a person. Makes them care about stuff they normally wouldn’t, say things they’d usually dig a hole in the blackest part of their souls for and bury deep down. Seems like his mouth is the only part of him not wanting to just fade into oblivion with dignity.

The man looks upset, his lips thin and he rolls his eyes. Well, he rolls his entire head along with his eyes. It’s kind of adorable, but Dean’s not going to tell him that.

“Castiel…” he finally says, and Dean nods.

“Yeah. Cas, yeah.” He mumbles, his eyes slipping closed. “I knew… I knew you… from some… somewhere. Hey, at least the last thing… I see... before I die is a real pretty… face.” Dean chuckles but it ends on a hacking cough.

“You will not die, Dean Winchester. Not as long as you are my charge. Not as long as you are mine to protect.”

“Ah…” Dean breathes out a pained sigh. “That’s a nice sentiment there, buddy, but unfortunately….it looks like…”

“Hush now,” Cas says and Dean snaps his mouth closed. Cas lifts his fingers and presses the warm pads against Dean’s forehead. “Take as deep a breath as you can. This might feel strange.”

Before he can even open his mouth to draw air Dean’s body is arching, his back bowing as light pours into him. It rushes through his veins, cold and white, stripping him raw and putting him back together again.

It’s familiar, the energy swirling under his skin, dripping into his muscles, coating his bones. It wraps around his core and cradles the very center of him. Dean’s assaulted with emotions. Feelings that are not his own well up inside of him, choking his voice off in his throat.

_Possessiveness_

_Protection_

_Safety_

_Treasured_

_Home..._

As much as Dean wants to close his eyes and float in these strange feelings something makes him drag them open. Makes him want to reach out and touch the light that’s filling him to the brink.

“Cas,” Dean breathes and those bright blue eyes blink down at him. He’s holding the angel’s face, the strong jut of his jaw cupped in Dean’s palm. “I remember you. I remember… we’ve been here before. Years ago.”

“Yes…” Cas says even as his lips pull down into a frown. “Try not to move, I’m almost done.”

“I want… I…” Dean’s not sure what he wants, what he needs. The only thing he knows is that the warmth in his chest is expanding at an alarming rate. It’s rushing after the light that’s healing him. His side no longer hurts, even the bump on his head is gone and the old stiffness in his knee has faded away. But the more that light pulls away, retreats, the more Dean reaches for it.

“Dean!” Cas gasps his eyes glowing brightly, his body going rigid.

“Is.. is that you? Is that you, Cas?” Dean asks, his breath coming easier with each passing second. The light pours back into him and he arches, crying out, but not in pain, euphoria sweeps through him. It surges along his veins, colliding with his own warmth, entwining with it. “C-Cas…”

“Yes,” Cas breathes, turning his face and pressing his lips to Dean’s palm.

“Angel?”

“Yes,” Cas answers again, his lips moving, soft and full, against the rough callous of Dean’s hand.

“I remember,” Dean manages, “I want to remember.”

He needs this, he needs to know he’s not alone, he’s not lost. Not hopeless. That his mother was right. He needs this with everything he is or will be.

“Don’t take this from me,” Dean begs as the light Castiel is pouring into him penetrates his very soul.

“I’m sorry.”

“No,” Dean curls his fingers into the soft dark hair at the base of Cas’ neck, clinging to him, “No, Cas… don’t. I want to remember.”

“You won't,” Cas says and just like that the light is gone. It doesn't just retreat, it feels like it’s been sucked right out of Dean, along with all the air in his lungs.

All the air in the world.

It doesn’t just leave him cold and empty, it leaves him desolate, collapsing back into the snow, gaping at the empty, starless sky.

Dean sits up slowly, his clothes, his skin, everything around him except for the snow angel he pressed into the powder below his back, is pristine. Dean can’t even see his footsteps leading away from the burning house.

“I’m sorry,” Dean chokes, his eyes welling up for some reason he can’t put his finger on. Somehow he knows those words aren’t his own. That these feelings aching in his chest aren’t from him but resonate from somewhere, someone else entirely. If only he could remember.

Rage explodes through him and he screams wordlessly, angry at nothing, slamming his fists down in the snow, before bringing his cold hands up to his face and rubbing at his eyes. “You should be,” Dean mumbles and then tilting his head back he screams to the clear night sky. “YOU SHOULD BE!”

His voice is swept away by the wind.


	3. Twenty-seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm, like, taking a lot of liberties with the Canon plot. You know just like most of the SPN writers do... >.>

“Look I’m telling you, it’s some kinda omen!”

“It’s not an omen, Dean. You having dreams about a blue-eyed man is not an omen, if anything it’s you repressing your––”

“Don’t!” Dean cuts in.

“I’m just saying, it’s the twentieth century, Dean. You don't have to keep preten–”

“No, dude. Come on. Not now, not ever. Okay?”

“Fine whatever, anyway… so tell me about this guy. Cas?”

“Yeah. Cas.” Dean pulls his keys out of his pocket and rolls his shoulders back, he taps his finger on the roof of the Impala and meets Sam’s eye, “He’s an angel.”

“An angel, Dean?” Sam’s face pinches and Dean rolls his eyes, pulling open his door and slipping inside. Sam drops into the passenger's side attempting to catch Dean’s eye again.

“Yes,” Dean grunts turning the key and starting her up.

“You realize how crazy that sounds, right? An angel, like, of the Lord?” Sam asks, his brows tipped toward his hairline.

Dean frowns out the front windshield, revs the engine, and peels out of the motel parking lot. He doesn’t need to explain himself to Sam. To anyone. He knows that Cas is more than just a blurry memory. More than just a pretty… a  _ face _ in his dreams. There’s more to this and he’s going to figure it out.

It’s days later when Dean pulls off the highway and out onto a barely plowed back road. He drives until the tires spin and lose their grip, parking Baby in front of the large cattle gate, her headlights illuminating the faded red  _ ‘No Trespassing’ _ sign. In the passenger seat, Sam snores softly and shifts in his sleep.

“Right…” Dean grumps, pulling himself out of the car and stomping towards the gate. He’s been keeping a journal. Just like Dad’s, but this one has every detail, every ounce of scattered memory Dean could drag from his mind about his mysterious, blue-eyed angel. He scales the gate and drops down onto the other side. 

The field is massive, empty and beautiful. A cold wind whips silently over the frosted hills. He needs the snow, the open night sky, and the clear field. All things his last few encounters with Cas had in common. 

Hopefully this time he doesn’t have to be bleeding out in order to get a little attention, Dean grumps, stomping through the snow towards the closest hill.  _ Maybe it’s the blood, though.  _

“This is so stupid.” Dean sighs, tenses, and flops onto his back in the snow. “I cannot believe I'm doing this.” Stretching out his arms, Dean swipes them through the loose powder. When he feels like he’s got the wings clear enough, he opens his eyes and frowns up at the heavens. 

The moon is almost full and casts the field in a cold blue light. Off in the distance, an owl hoots and cows rumble lowly.  _ Cas, Cas, Cas. _ Dean thinks over and over again,  _ Cas! _

_ “ _ Cas.”

“Cas! I know you can hear me!” Dean lifts a hand and rubs at the center of his sternum. It’s oddly hot and uncomfortable. Something isn’t right. “Cas!” he calls again but the word feels wrong on his tongue. Incomplete.

“C..Cast... Cas–tiel,” Dean tries and his whole body shivers. That’s it. “Castiel, Angel of the Lord, get your feathery butt down here!” 

Lightning cracks across the sky and Dean scrambles up to his feet, eyes glued to the heavens.

“That is no way to speak to a celestial being.” 

Spinning around, Dean hides the way his body reacts to that voice—so much deeper and rumbling than he remembers—by pulling out his gun and cocking it at the figure standing just a few feet from him.

“Cas?”

“Yes.” 

“What...?”

“Don’t you,  _ what _ , me,  _ boy,” _ Castiel says, advancing a step towards Dean. He doesn’t even look cold, standing there in nothing but a faded, gray AC/DC t-shirt and a pair of ripped blue jeans. He’s not even wearing shoes. Dean licks his lips, dragging his eyes back to Cas’ face. Cas frowns, cocking his head to the side, squinting those brilliant blue eyes at Dean. 

“Do you have  _ any _ idea how difficult it is for me to come to you? For you, who should have no knowledge of me or my kind, to lay here, in a field, catching  _ hypothermia _ , and calling out to me? By  _ name _ no less _?!” _

Dean gapes, his mouth opening and closing. The air crackles around him, the hairs on his arms and the nape of his neck stand on end. This was a really stupid idea.

“Yes, it was,” Cas agrees and he steps forward again. “Do not call for me. Do not look for me. Do not remember me.” 

Cas reaches out for him, his pointer and middle finger stretched towards Dean’s forehead.

“No,” Dean says, grabbing Cas by the wrist. “No, I want to remember.”

“Believe it or not, Dean, what you want is not my concern.”

“I thought I was your charge?” Dean blurts out and that seems to give Castiel pause. “I thought you were supposed to protect me?”

“I… I am. I will.” Castiel squints again, his nose wrinkling in a way that makes Dean’s stomach twist with an uneasy pleasure.

“Is that what you call this? Constantly wiping my memory? Making me think I’m crazy?” Dean shoots back, trying to pull Cas’ arm out of the air but finding it impossible to move. 

“You shouldn’t have remembered me in the first place. I don’t know how you did. We should have never met.”

The cold crack of Cas’ voice shatters something deep inside of Dean. “No, no we have to. No.” He licks his lips, searching Cas’ face. “That’s not true, you know it’s not….. I….”

“Enough,” Cas says and Dean’s mouth snaps shut. “We are so close. Just … just do what you’re told.”

“You’d have to tell me something in order to have me do it!” Dean snaps back, a smile stretching his lips as Cas’ eyes go wide for a moment. 

“Do you have a death wish?” Cas snarls, stepping so close his chest almost bumps into Dean’s. “I could kill you with the snap of my fingers!” Cas shakes Dean’s grip off his wrist and holds his fingers, poised to snap, between them. Dean blinks, swallows the momentary flash of fear that surges through him, and opens his mouth to argue but Cas is there, pressing his palm over Dean’s mouth, forcing him quiet.

“No more words. No more questions. You listen, and you do what I tell you to.” Cas arches his brows and Dean rolls his eyes. The moment Cas removes his hand, Dean’s on him again. He doesn't know what it is about Cas, but pushing him sends a thrill through Dean.

“Hi, I don’t know if we’ve met, but… uh, yeah, I don’t take orders from no-one…”

Instead of responding, Cas steps forward, wraps one arm around Dean’s waist and presses the tips of his fingers to Dean’s forehead. He doesn’t even have time to enjoy the toned, lean press of Cas’ body before the angel is rumbling “Sleep,” and everything goes black.


	4. Thirty-six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Additional Tags At The End**
> 
> I'm really taking liberties... with canon. Also, did someone order a side of fluff? Cause IDK what to do with all this fluff...

It’s weeks, months, maybe years later when everything goes to shit. There’s no snow this time, just dirt and mud and clumps of grass as Dean pulls himself out of what could only be his own grave. The heat in his chest pulses and aches, reaching for something he can’t describe. The air around him crackles with residual energy, and there’s an itch under his skin he can’t quite explain. 

Everything about this is wrong. Flashes of memory assault him as he staggers out of the clearing. Blood and fire. Pain and destruction. Light and healing. A brilliant white light and soft black... _ feathers?  _ Dean stumbles to a stop, his legs wobbly and stiff. His boots scuff against the first paved road he finds. Lifting a hand to the sky, Dean uses the horizon and the sun to determine north before plodding off in the most likely direction of civilization.

He barely makes it to the gas station before everything goes haywire again. Pain and darkness resound through his head. Screeching, whining, ringing sounds erupt in his ears so loudly Dean is convinced he will never hear again. 

He’s being hunted. Chased by a being neither he nor Sam or Bobby has ever encountered before. They scramble and Dean feels his life flickering before his eyes, passing rapidly until he finds himself standing in the center of a barn; a can of spray paint in one hand, the demon blade in the other, and Bobby at his back, shotgun at the ready.

“Whatever you got comin’ down on you, boy, we’ll face it together.”

The doors to the barn burst open. Dean shields his eyes against the sparks flying from overhead. Bobby’s shotgun fires once, twice. Dean raises his gun and gets off a few rounds. The man, as he can see now that the sparks are fading and the spots clear from his vision, just keeps advancing. He’s looking around like he’s amused, or confused. Either way, Dean doesn’t have time for him. If bullets won’t take him down, the demon blade will. 

Stepping forward, Dean flips the blade in his hand and drives it into the stranger's chest. Jolts of electricity spark from the wound, racing up his arm and down his shoulder. Dean bites his cheek as images assault him, blood explodes in his mouth, and memories flood his mind. 

Flashes of his life, all centered around blue eyes and dark hair. Dean sees the cabin from his youth and the angel leaning over him. His vessel is young but the angel’s eyes are still sharp, holding the knowledge of the universe in them. 

He sees the burning house and those full, chapped lips frowning down at him as he bleeds out in the snow, many years later. The memory changes, replaced by the next one before the edges have even fully faded away. Dean sees the snow-laden cattle field under a bright blue moon, strong arms holding him tightly. 

Dean gasps, coughing on the blood that coats his tongue, and finally yanks his hand off the blade. He gapes for a moment as the man reaches up and pulls the still-sparking demon blade from his chest. He blinks at it before dropping it to the ground.

“You… you... I know you…” Dean shuffles back a half a step, eyes wide. “Why do I know you? Who…?”

“I’m the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition.”

Dean surges up from his bed, gasping, a hand pressed to the center of his chest as an old, familiar pain throbs dully behind his sternum.

“Dean?” 

Swallowing, Dean rubs at the ache; it’s something he hasn’t felt in a long time and it fades just as quickly as it came on. Looking over his shoulder, he sees the mound of sheets and blankets next to him wiggle. A warm hand slips out and lands between his shoulder blades, gently stroking.

“Yeah, I’m okay. Go back to sleep.” Licking his lips, Dean scrubs his hands through his hair, scratching at his scalp. Memories slide in and out of focus before his unseeing eyes.

“Dean…” The hand on his back creeps up to his shoulder and pulls him down to the mattress. “Hello...” 

Snuggling down onto his pillow, Dean lifts his hand and brushes a few dark strands back from his lover’s face. Familiar blue eyes blink questioningly at him. “I was just dreaming about when we first met. Do you remember?”

Cas smirks, rolling his eyes, and pulls Dean over to him by the back of his neck. The kiss is short and soft, an intimate press of lips that has Dean’s eyes fluttering closed. “Which time are we talking about?” Cas chuckles, resting their foreheads together, and Dean grins.

“All of them,” Dean laughs. His hand slides down Cas’ neck and over his chest to wrap around his back and draw them closer together. 

“Hmmm,” Cas hums, settling against Dean’s chest. “I will admit, dealing with Gabriel’s insistence on punishing Sam was a rough couple of weeks for me.”

Dean chuckles pressing a kiss to Cas’ forehead before snuggling him closer. “Yeah” Dean agrees, “You and me both.”

“Gabe was not happy with me trying to interfere….” As Cas speaks he pulls back from Dean’s embrace, just enough to run his fingertips down between Dean’s pectorals, hesitating for a moment on the spot the stiffness usually resonates from. “I just… I couldn't stay away. Each time you died, each time he killed you, it…”

“Hurt,” Dean finishes, wrapping his hand around the one Cas has pressed to his chest.

“It felt like nothing I’d ever experienced before. Like my very grace was being ripped to shreds.” Cas looks up at him, brows arched, confusion written into every line of his face. “It was so much worse than when I fell, Dean. It was like I was living a death that was not my own and I had no power to do anything to change…”

“Hey, Cas… sweetheart, it’s okay,” Dean cuts in, voice soft. Gently, he runs a knuckle over Cas’ cheek, turning to cup his jaw. “We know why, now. What happened between us? That was my  _ real _ destiny. The bond I made, when you saved me outside that burning house all those years ago? Well, it might have been a mistake then, but it hasn’t been for a long time. And when you pulled me from hell, Cas? When you reached out and touched me, your grace flowed through me, completing the bond... You and me? We’re always meant to be.”

Cas beams up at him and Dean falls in love all over again. Just like the first time, just like every time since. 

“Sexiest snow angel in the garrison…” Dean says and Cas tips his head back and laughs.

“I still can’t believe that you thought making a snow angel was key to summoning me.”

“What? It seemed plausible at the time… I mean I’ve seen stranger things in my life. And anyway, that was before I knew we had a  _ ‘more profound bond. _ ’” Dean says, with finger quotes and all.

“I’ll show you just how  _ profound _ our bond is…” Cas growls, rolling them until Dean is flat on his back. He lifts his knees to bracket either side of Cas’ hips, arousal pooling low in his gut, when the door to their room bangs open and two screaming children rush in.

“Jessa!” Dean laughs, catching the little blonde as she flings herself up onto the bed.

“Adam.” Cas sits up and scoops a small brunette boy into his arms.

“Merry Christmas, Uncle Dean,” Jessa sings, throwing her small arms around Dean’s neck.

“Merry Crisums, Unca Cas,” Adam yawns, rubbing at his eyes.

“Merry Christmas, Adam. Is Daddy up yet?”

As if on queue, Sam comes blundering into the room. There's batter smeared over his front and chocolate sauce rubbed across his forehead.

“We’re making waffles!” Jessa announces, and it’s only then Dean notices the batter smeared down her—and now his—front. 

“Sorry, I told them to let you sleep in,” Sam explains, bending down to lift Jessa off the bed.

“Mama said we can’t open anything till everyone’s up!”

“Up! Up! Up!” Adam parrots, his tiny fists landing in Cas’ hair and tugging. 

“Okay, okay. We’re up” Cas laughs as he extracts Adam’s hands. “Why don’t you two go see if Santa left Uncle Dean anything under the tree?”

“RRAAH!!!” Adam screams and waves his hands in excitement.

“SANTA!!!” Jessa shrieks from where she’s being held aloft by her father. Her legs kick wildly through the air, her unicorn slippers lighting up with the motion. Sam laughs as he sets her down in time to run after her brother as he toddles out of the room.

“Jessa!” 

“Uncle Cas said I could!”

“Castiel!”

“Oh boy, glad it’s not me this time.” Sam grins.

“Where do you get off….” Eileen steps into the doorway of their bedroom, her hair in a messy bun, flour coating her apron. Her hands flash through the air as she speaks. “..telling my children to sort through the gifts while covered in chocolate and waffle batter?”

“Ooops...”

“ _ Ooops, _ ” she sighs, rolling her eyes. “Well, get up! Christmas morning in the bunker waits for no man… or angel.” She arches up onto her toes and places a kiss on Sam’s cheek, then waddles her very pregnant belly back towards the kitchen.

“You heard her,” Sam says with a shrug, disappearing after his wife.

Dean heaves a sigh, flopping back down against the pillows. Cas wraps a hand around his knee, giving it a little shake.

“You know,” Dean says, blinking up at the ceiling, “I don’t really know how we got to this point, but I wouldn’t change a damn thing.”

“I think I’d have you die a little less…” Cas replies as he flops back down onto the bed next to him.

“Yeah, okay, maybe I’d change a few things.” Dean laughs and rolls over to press a kiss to Cas’ lips. 

This, though. This is one thing he’d never change. Deep in his chest, somewhere next to his heart, something warm and bright flutters and he knows it’s Cas. 

No matter how many lives Dean has to live, how many possible futures he’s changed to get to this one, no matter the hells he had to traverse to bring him to this moment, he’d do it all again. As many times as it takes to get here, with Cas in his bed and his family safe and flourishing around him. 

This is his future, this is his destiny. Cas sighs against his lips, deepening the kiss. Yeah, it's always been Cas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Tag notes** Uncle Dean, Uncle Cas, Bunker Life, mention of pregnancy-Eileen, Domestic bliss.  
> Relationship\- Sam/Eileen

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Have a safe and Happy New Year.


End file.
